


here, where that pearl rolled down

by partialconstellations



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, Erogenous dick scar smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, No beta we die like illiterates, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, what one might call a misuse of pearls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21935290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partialconstellations/pseuds/partialconstellations
Summary: He lays eyes on Sansa, standing bare in the middle of the room, with the corners of her mouth turned into a hesitant smile. The flickering candlelight brings out the iridescence of the pearls around her neck, leading down between her breasts, past her mound, to end right where her thighs meet.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64





	here, where that pearl rolled down

**Author's Note:**

> A little Christmas present.
> 
> Happy holidays!

Sansa’s nameday gift hasn’t exactly been easy to procure, but it was worth it. Winterfell is landlocked for leagues, so it’s truly a twist of good fortune that the Iron King felt generous when her brother came calling and sent it to him with only a mildly dirty, but very smug note.

Sansa unwraps the clumsily wrapped box with the same delight she used to as a girl, tossing the fabric scrap aside. She lifts the necklace, a long rope of pearls, out of the carved box Yara has sent it in almost fervently.

“Theon,” she gasps, smiling from one ear to the other, as she runs her fingers over every single precious pearl. “You shouldn’t have.” The way her eyes light up—positively sparkling—at the gift, is almost enough. _Almost_.

“I must admit. This isn’t solely for your own benefit,” he replies, covering her hands with his own, gently lifting the necklace. It’s a long rope, to be looped around the neck multiple times, but it isn’t what he’s had in mind. He lifts it above her head, lays it around her neck, letting the necklace dangle. It takes little adjustment for the pearls to end up between her breasts and further down, his knuckles brushing her breasts through layers of fabric as he does. A slight gasp escapes her.

“One might even say this was entirely selfish,” he adds, hungrily taking in the sight, as she stands before him, her fingers still gliding over the pearls in wonder.

“Oh?” she says, a crooked smile moving over her lips before her face settles into a neutral expression.

“I might have wanted to see you in nothing but this.” Hooking his fingers into the necklace, he tugs at the pearls, twisting one between the remaining fingers of his hand.

She leans in, almost close enough for their noses to brush against each other. “Oh?” she repeats, her breath hot on his face.

“Yes,” he breathes, angling his face up to meet her lips, the necklace still between his fingers, his hands moving against hers.

“Well, then,” she begins, and pulls away, the necklace slipping through his fingers, pearl by precious pearl, the rope bridging the distance between them as she steps away. “I expect you in our chambers after dinner. Knock.” Taking his hands into hers, she disentangles the necklace from his grasp, and turns away with a smirk and a playful glint in her eye.

It’s odd to stand outside the chambers they unashamedly share, even though the Queen in the North remains unwed in the eyes of her bannermen—their vows said in private, with only the Old Gods as their witnesses, and a horn of homemade saltwater—and wait for her to call him in.

It takes a while until her reply comes, voice coming soft and quiet through the thick door. “Enter.”

He does, only opening the door wide enough to slip through, not more, and it is a good thing he does. The sight that offers itself is meant for only him and he would gladly kill any—man or woman—who would see Sansa like this without her explicit invitation.

Their chamber is lit by the light of what could very well be the entire winter’s supply of candles, but the flickering light is only secondary once he lays eyes on Sansa, standing bare in the middle of the room, with the corners of her mouth turned into a hesitant smile. The flickering candlelight brings out the iridescence of the pearls around her neck, leading down between her breasts, past her mound, to end right where her thighs meet.

(He doesn’t rightly know whether he should thank Yara profusely or ask her some very pointed questions, but that is a thought for later. _Much later_.)

Forcing himself to tear his eyes away from the pearls meeting her fiery curls, he looks up into her eyes. The knowing look on her face would make his knees buckle on any day, clothed or not. He would gladly fall to his knees and worship at her feet, the altar of _her_ pearl, until the end of his days without another thought.

Sansa bites her lower lip, and her tentative smile turns into a predator’s smirk as she locks eyes with him; her hands begin to move, one grasping the end of the pearl necklace, twisting it between thumb and forefinger, the other going to her own breast, running along her milky skin with her fingertips before she squeezes. The moan she lets out at her own touch is loud and shameless.

Lest his knees start buckling in truth, Theon leans heavily on his cane as he crosses the room, the cane thumping heavily against the stone floor, careless in his hurry to reach her and run his fingers over her skin.

“Gods, Sansa,” he croaks, his tongue sticking to the roof of this mouth, as he hungrily takes in the sight.

She takes one, and then another, slow, deliberate step away from him, back towards their bed, the hand previously on her breast reaching for the bedframe, but his eyes are drawn down to her other hand playing with herself. Palm flat against the necklace, Sansa is pressing the pearls between her thighs and into the softness of her folds. “Is it as you imagined?” she asks innocently, eyes fixed firmly on him, despite the rising redness in her cheeks. The fingers between her legs start moving, rubbing the pearls of the necklace against her own, and her lips part in a soft moan, a sound sweet as honey.

Theon finally closes the distance between them, leaning into her, free arm circling around her, fingers splayed on the curve of her back. Her moan is swallowed by his lips on hers. He can feel her smile into the kiss before she nips at him. “Eager boy,” she says, her forehead resting against his. Her breath tickles against his lips, and she continues, “You haven’t answered my question.”

“You’re a vision,” he replies. “Let me show you.” He leans in for another kiss, but as he does, he can feel her fingers move against herself between them. The pearls move between them as she pushes into herself. The thought of her touching herself when he’s this close to her, is too much to bear. His cane clattering against the flagstones, he drops to his knees in front of her. Nothing seems more prudent than getting his mouth on her and taste her, the thought of her already slick from touching herself overwhelming.

“Hold on.” Sansa says and sits down at the edge of the bed, leaning back to get a pillow from the bed. With it in hand, she deliberately leans forward to place it on the floor, the necklace brushing his cheek as she does. Barely able to contain a moan, he shuffles onto the pillow, his knees thanking her. “Much better,” she adds, smiling down at him.

Before she is able to lean back again, he catches the necklace, twisting it around his hand and strains his neck up to kiss her. Her lips are soft against his own, his tongue brushing against hers. He can taste the sweet baked apples that were served at the small feast honouring her nameday and that she had enthusiastically partaken in. Her fingers curl into the roots of his hair at the back of his neck. She twists, tugging a little, wrangling a little moan out of him. Then she pulls away, the necklace falling between her legs, brushing along the outside of her folds as she leans back, forcing a small gasp from her.

He snags the end of the necklace, testing three, before finding the fourth wet and slick. Theon rolls the pearls between his fingers, relishing the feel of her wetness coating them and grins up at Sansa, necklace taut between them where she’s leaning back on her elbows. “You liked doing that, didn’t you?”

Nodding, she blushes even redder.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he says, using her own words against her, and tugs on the necklace, just a little, not enough to tear. “You liked touching yourself, with me watching you.”

Sansa moans, leaning forward again, supporting herself on one hand, the thumb of her other hand pressing against his lower lip as she cups his chin with her hand. “I did. I’d like it even more if you put this to better use.” Her voice is quiet and low, barely loud enough for him to hear. His lips part, closing around her thumb and sucking involuntarily. He twists the necklace in reply, moving them against her neck and over her breast, making her hips move of their own accord.

“I think,” Theon says, pulling back and releasing her thumb as he speaks, “you like this a little too much. Queen Sansa.” He pulls the necklace down between her legs, presses one strand into her folds and then, ever so slowly, he moves the pearls, one by one, between her lips, watching in fascination as they vanish and reappear between them. Her wetness pools in front of him, and the idea that she made herself like this—teasing him—her nether lips red and swollen with lust is a thing of beauty, one he still can’t quite wrap his head around. Soft, keening whimpers escape her as she bucks against the pearls between her folds, so close to his face.

Her hand is on his head again, grabbing at his hair for purchase, and she seems to summon all her remaining dignity as she speaks, “So do you. Prince Theon.” And then her legs move, closing in on him, one coming to rest on his shoulder, knee and thigh pressed against his cheek, his ear, the other on the floor, pressing against his thigh where he’s kneeling, and suddenly his entire world is Sansa Stark.

The scent of her arousal invites him to lean forward and lap at the feast offered up in front of him. He licks a broad stroke across her folds, dipping between them, savouring the taste and feeling of her wetness against his mouth, and up to her clit, taking it between his lips and he starts sucking. She tastes so sweet, of her own arousal, as he drinks her in. And then her grip on him tightens, the sudden stimulus making her buck against him, her knee tight against his ear. He pulls back, with a featherlight kiss to her own pearl. He barks out a laugh at the frustrated sound—a deep, guttural thing—she makes at the loss of contact, chasing his mouth with her hips.

“Don’t even think of stopping,” she demands, breathless, somewhere above him, a world away, her fingers kneading his hair. Theon is so enclosed in her that he almost doesn’t hear, but he obeys, diving back into her, the sight of the necklace, the pearls resting against her folds too enticing a sight.

The pearls offer an odd sort of sensation, and he catches one between his teeth, runs his tongue along its surface before experimentally rolling it along her walls—and if the roll of her hips, the deep moan, her heel digging into his back, are any indication, she’s enjoying it. She tastes so sweet, her own slick easing the way for the pearls, as he carefully pushes one, two, and then three, into her with his tongue, the necklace moving against the corner of his mouth. He catches it between his fingers, tugging and releasing it against the movement of his tongue, moving them inside and against her, as he laps at her, taking his time to make her come undone at the tip of his tongue.

The noises Sansa is making are the sweetest he’s ever heard. She’s moaning and gasping, her peak imminent, her thigh pressing tightly against him as he pulls back, breathes against her wetness, murmurs, “come for me, my love,” and then dives back in. Her reaction is a sight to behold, all leftover countenance gone. The Queen in the North is a panting wreck as she draws a laboured breath, the look in her eyes as he looks up at her one of pure ecstasy, her ivory skin flushed red all over.

Her wetness is dripping out of her, matching that on his chin and as she regains her breath, she laughs—a sound so lovely and free and too seldomly heard—and she’s breathlessly petting his hair and his cheek.

“You liked it then, I gather?” he asks with a crooked grin, tasting her on his lips with the tip of his tongue, unable to stop himself from twisting the pearls between his fingers again, moving them against her skin, and she lets out another gasp.

Once she’s caught her breath, she smiles down at him, where he’s kneeling between her legs. “I ask that you allow me to give you something in return,” she says, her hand carding through his hair. “After all, I have received not one, but two gifts from my husband.” She spreads her legs a little wider to emphasise, the pearls resting against her body, moving with her breathing, her own wetness still glistening on her folds, dark and inviting.

“Allow you?” he says, leaning into her touch. As though he could ever even think of denying her, with her taste still lingering on his tongue and this sight in front of him.

“Will you?” she asks, tone more insistent this time.

“Will _you_?” he retorts nonsensically, but it’s hard to form thoughts—let alone words—when she looks at him with that determined look on her face, with one hand still in his hair and the other cradling his cheek, when he’s still at her feet. “You don’t—have to.”

“But I want to,” she replies, and her hand moves along his cheek with the lightest of touches, and below his chin, tilting up his head. “I want to make you feel just as good. Will you let me?”

The candlelight reflects in her blue eyes as he focuses on her. Wetting his lips, he replies, “Gods, yes.”

“Then come here,” she says, and then that lovely, steady touch is gone for a moment, before one hand grasps his own and the other steadies him below his elbow, supporting him as he gets up and sits down at the edge of the bed. He intends to move away from the edge, so she can join him in their pile of furs, crawl atop him, but Sansa shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “Stay right there.” And then their positions are reversed; her kneeling on the pillow laid out at his feet, already opening the drawstrings of his breeches, more nimbly than he ever could, and pulling them down in one quick motion. He doesn’t even realise he’s lifted his arse to help her along, when her hot breath is back on him again. Her hair tickles him as she leans in, the necklace plunging between her breasts as she leans forward, trailing small kisses along the inside of his thigh.

“Sansa,” he says, his breath hitching at the thought of what she intends to do. “You don’t have to,” he says again.

In reply, she lightly bites the flesh of his thigh, just below his hip. It’s not nearly enough to draw blood, gods forbid, but it makes her point. After, her lips are soft against him immediately.

His fingers find their way to the back of her head, and lower, grasping where the pearls rest against her neck, and it’s so much better than he could have ever imagined. He just keeps his hand there, not tugging, just relishing in the feeling of where pearls meet neck.

And then—then Sansa’s mouth is on the jagged scar between his legs, mouthing against it and her tongue flicks out and his hips buck up against her. A low moan escapes him before he can even begin to process what she is doing. She giggles, repeating the motion playfully.

“Sansa,” he moans, his free hand closing around nothing, scrabbling for purchase in the sheets beneath him. She looks up at him, mischievous glint in her eyes, and reaches up with one hand, to take his own, giving it a squeeze, the other curled around his thigh, as she shifts and licks against the scar tissue and then moves up, her lips closing around his stump, tongue darting up and flat against it.

She licks around and at him, her tongue alternating between quick and gentle flicks and long, slow drags. He watches her, still not quite able to believe his luck. She opens her eyes as though she knows he is watching her and the look in her eyes as they make eye contact is positively filthy. She pulls off and grins at him and his hips buck at the touch of the cold air on him.

“Come for me, darling,” she whispers and engulfs him with the heat of her mouth once more. His release is different than it used to be, but if he said he doesn’t relish how debauched Sansa looks on her knees, the pearl necklace still around her neck and with him on her lips, catching his seed with her tongue and a wicked smirk gracing her lips, he’d be struck down as a liar.

Theon is catching his breath as she gets up and throws the pillow back on the bed, nudging him further onto it with her knees, giving him a peck on his lips—her taste on his, his taste on hers, mingling together—as she climbs over him.

“So,” he says, as she settles in next to him, still wearing the necklace, the pearls grazing along his skin as she moves while she gets comfortable. She would have to take it off before they fall asleep, but that could wait. For now, he savours her presence against his side, their hands entwined, his head tucked into the crook of her neck. “I take it you enjoyed your gift.”

She laughs before she replies; a little, undignified snort that goes through her entire body. “Just as much as you did, my love, I’m sure. We’ll just have to find some more uses for it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Tolkien translation of Pearl, a late 14th century Middle English poem, which is decidedly not erotic. I have no regrets.


End file.
